Inkheart: Searching For A Way
by Kaelir of Lorien
Summary: Though Capricorn is gone, Dustfinger is back where he started - trapped in the wrong story, though with the addition of Farid to keep him company. He has Inkheart, but now he needs a reader, because he knows that Silvertongue won't risk sending him back..
1. Aftermath

This is my first attempt at writing a story based off of the novel _Inkheart_, so bear with me here. Any comments and constructive criticism you readers have to offer are much appreciated. Happy Reading!

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No matter how desperately he tried to convince himself that the past weeks had been worth it, that something significant had been accomplished, Dustfinger could not make himself believe it. Yes, some things had changed — Capricorn was dead, and the writer Fenoglio had unexpectedly disappeared while back in the mountain village — but what did that mean to him? Nothing. He had managed to avoid Capricorn fairly easily before he had finally tracked down Silvertongue and his daughter, and what did he care about an old man, even if he had, as he claimed, created Dustfinger out of ink and paper? No, the only thing that hurt about Fenoglio vanishing was that the author had managed to accomplish, even inadvertently, what Dustfinger had been striving for without success for ten long years.

Indeed, looking back, Dustfinger felt that, if anything, he was worse off than he had been before Capricorn's men had first taken Silvertongue and his family hostage. At least then he could have counted on some comfort from Resa, to whom he had foolishly given his heart and then had it abruptly thrust back at him. He was not even sure that Resa had really cared for him as much as he had thought. Now that she had her husband and daughter back, her _family_, there was no reason why her affections should reserve a place for Dustfinger.

And the book… his portal to home, had so far proven useless. Two readers, supposedly with the possession of Silvertongue's talent, had tried and failed to send him back. Each time, Dustfinger had gotten his hopes up when he heard of someone with a strange gift of breathing life into the pages of a book, and each time his heart had plummeted when he realized nothing that happened, that he was standing in the same place. No slanting sunlight through the verdant canopies of trees so high you could scarcely see their tops, no flitting blue fairies, no gentle scent of strange and lovely wildflowers or the humming of angry little fire-elves as they drove you from their precious nests.

No, only bright lights blotting out the natural darkness in a world that ran too fast and never stopped to let you catch your breath before dashing to keep pace with it again. Only a story that Dustfinger didn't belong in.

The fire-eater sighed heavily, leaning back against the rough bark of an old oak tree. He stretched his legs out in front of him and raised his head slightly as he stared up at the clear evening sky, spotted with stars and wonderfully endless. For a brief moment, Dustfinger imagined that he just had to look at that sky long enough, and soon the stars would multiply, and when he looked down again he would be shaded by trees much taller, and the beautifully haunted sounds of the Wayless Wood would fill his ears and show him that he was really back….

"Look!" Farid's voice, low and excited, cut sharply through Dustfinger's musings. He turned his head slightly to see the boy crouched next to their small campfire, his hands almost touching the flames. "It's not burning me! I think I'm getting it now—"

"—but it will if you put your fingers any closer." Dustfinger kept his tone blunt, but behind the mask he could not help feeling the slightest bit amused at Farid's enthusiasm. The boy simply would not give up, no matter how harsh Dustfinger was towards him. "Come away from there. It's getting late, anyway." His eyes scanned the surrounding forest for a few moments. "Where's Gwin?"

Farid shrugged. "Hunting, I think. He left a little while ago." Ignoring Dustfinger's warning, he inched his hands toward the fire again.

"Didn't I just tell you to stop?" Dustfinger asked sharply. "How many times do I have to remind you? Fire in this world is different than it is in mine. You can't tame it, and it _will_ bite you if you're not careful."

"Well," Farid replied, completely untroubled by this warning, "I'll be able to perform with you when we get back there, then, since it's easier to manage." However, he did move his reach away from the crackling tongues of flame.

Dustfinger raised an eyebrow at him. "Why do you keep acting like my story is your home as well, instead of the one you came from?" But he knew the answer. Farid's home was wherever he, Dustfinger, was. And if it meant switching stories, the boy had no problem doing so. He obviously realized that the fire-eater knew this, as well, because he didn't answer. The question had been asked so many times that it no longer merited a response, for Farid never wavered in his reply, spoken or not.

They remained there in silence for some time, Dustfinger with his back against the tree and Farid staring avidly into the ever-changing fire. It had been this way ever since leaving Capricorn's village. Though they had the book, they could not do anything with it themselves — they needed a reader, someone like Silvertongue, or even the stammering Darius. And so they traveled from village to village, searching for rumors of someone with the rare gift and earning their way by performing in market squares. They rarely stayed in one place for long, and when evening came they retreated to the countryside. Dustfinger was far more at ease away from the brightly-lit towns and closer to the darkness of night. But at times, when the quest had reached a low point of utter futility, he cursed everything that had brought him into this word and held him fast. He hated his dependence on others, the feeling that his happiness was at the mercy of dishonest characters who took his money and then failed to do what he so urgently desired. What a fool he was… and yet one with no choice.

"Where are we going tomorrow?" Farid asked after a while. His head was up, looking at Dustfinger inquiringly.

The fire-eater closed his eyes. "Into town, as usual." He tried to keep his tone level as he added, "Or did you forget that Golden Eyes took most of our money?"

Farid snorted as he added another twig to the fire. "Golden Eyes — ha! His eyes were only thing about him that was gold — his tongue certainly wasn't."

"We'll have to keep looking, then."

"I still think you should have asked Silvertongue." Farid's voice was slightly surly. "Or his daughter. They might have agreed to read us back in."

Dustfinger's eyes flashed open again. "We've been over this before. He wouldn't dare try it again, not now that he's just regained his wife. He won't risk losing any of them." He pushed down the pang of resentment that rose up inside him. Silvertongue had lost his wife, and finally found her again, but Dustfinger was back where he had started — in the wrong world, with the wrong people, and separated from his family by ten interminable years.

Silence fell once more. Dustfinger could tell that Farid had heard the anger in his words, and taken it as a signal not to bring up the subject again in the near future. The minutes rolled by, and eventually the fire-eater looked over at his companion again. "You'd best get some sleep," he suggested quietly. "I'll take the first watch." It was a hard habit to break, setting a watch. In the old world, it had been a necessity. Here, it was perhaps less expedient, but Dustfinger could not forget that Basta and many of the other Blackjackets were still alive.

As Farid lay down and curled up under his coat, Dustfinger laid his head back against the tree trunk and resumed his watching of the stars. Somewhere, in another story, the stars were shining down on Ombra as well, and on the Wayless Wood, and the Castle of the Laughing Prince…


	2. Feats of Flame

Yes, there actually is another chapter to this story. I perhaps neglected to mention that the first chapter was not a oneshot. Happy reading, and as always, comments/costructive criticism are appreciated.

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Farid woke Dustfinger about an hour after dawn the next morning. After packing the few belongings they traveled with, Dustfinger scattered the cold remains of their fire, then whistled sharply. Gwin came darting out from behind a nearby tree, his muzzle adorned with a few brown feathers that were no doubt the remains of a previous meal. The horned marten licked Dustfinger's hand briefly, but then scurried over to Farid and leapt up to perch on the boy's pack.

"He's quite a little traitor, isn't he?" Dustfinger noted quietly. He did not add what else was on his mind — the role he had found out that Gwin played in Fenoglio's version of _Inkheart_. The boy didn't need to know, though. He would only worry, and besides, he was rather attached to the marten anyway.

Farid didn't answer. Perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the odd look that Dustfinger had directed at the creature.

After leaving the forest, they followed the nearest road until it wound its way into the small town that Dustfinger had spotted the previous day. It was the same routine that they had followed since taking leave of Silvertongue and the rest: Follow the road, find a village, locate the main marketplace, and they were in business. This time, the square was slightly larger than usual, and Dustfinger decided to take advantage of the denser crowd by putting on a somewhat heightened performance.

At first, he and the boy lingered on the outskirts of the market as he organized his materials. Torches, bottles, juggling balls, matches… the normal assortment. Once he had the equipment the way he liked, Dustfinger gave Farid a short nod, and immediately the boy slipped into the crowd and began speaking loudly to everyone within hearing range. Gradually, the market-goers dispersed towards the edge of the square, giving Dustfinger enough room to make his way to the middle. Setting everything on the cobblestones, he removed his shirt and lit two torches that Farid had already doused in liquid from a containder in Dustfinger's backpack. The crowd grew perceptively stiller.

Dustfinger had done this many times before, both in this world and his own. He knew that beginning slowly and working his way to the most fantastic tricks was the best way to keep an audience mesmerized and willing to reward. Tossing his head to flip the shoulder-length hair out of his face, he began leisurely, pacing himself. The torches, one in each hand, commenced a slow, measured dance around his body. First twirling up, then forward, then sweeping down to his knees, and soaring upwards again along his back and over his head. The flames flickered eagerly at his skin, but did not burn.

As the movement quickened, Dustfinger began to turn, allowing every person in the crowd to catch a glimpse of the magic he was working. The torches were becoming trails of fire now, leaving blazing patterns in the air as they passed so close to the fire-eater's body that some in the audience let out gasps of apprehension. For a few seconds, Dustfinger leaned back, his form arched like a drawn bow, a wheel of flame on either side of him. Then he straightened again, and his arms and wrists were traveling in controlled, fluid motions through every inch of the surrounding air.

His face tight with concentration, Dustfinger passed the torches over his arms and let the fire lick up and down until it seemed his skin could not last another second without scorching. But then he brushed the flames away with a few casual sweeps of his hands, whirled the torches their fastest yet up the length of his body, and suddenly the act was ended. Dustfinger stood there in the middle of the ring of spectators, arms outstretched above and away from his head, his face towards the sky, and with the fire still burning in his hands.

The crowd broke into enthusiastic applause. With Gwin on his shoulder, Farid circled the perimeter and collected donations from the watches while Dustfinger carefully extinguished the torches. The juggling balls, though yet untouched in the performance, were replaced back in the bag, for Dustfinger had experience in judging the mood of an audience. These people didn't want to see anything close to the ordinary — they wanted more feats with fire. And so, in keeping with the will of his spectators, Dustfinger drew out fresh torches and lined them up one by one on the stones in front of him.

He waited patiently until Farid had completed his rounds of the audience, and then once again drew attention to himself by striking a match and lighting the first torch. This he picked up and methodically held to each of its fellows until all seven were topped with a crown of fire.

Bringing two of the additional torches into his hands, Dustfinger flipped them one by one into the air above his head. As the second dropped from its peak, the fire-eater deftly caught the first and almost instantaneously launched the third into its flight. The flaming arcs quickened and became higher. With his eyes on the torches, Dustfinger slowly crouched down and, still maintaining, the constant throw-catch rhythm, added a fourth torch with a movement so quick and sure that the eyes could scarcely follow it. Claps and murmurs of admiration came from the crowd.

With a natural ease that was the result of many years of practice, Dustfinger strayed from the center of the open space and began circling nearer to the spectators as he juggled the torches. Every so often, he added another element to the performance — leaning back so that his torso was nearly parallel to the ground, flipping the torches from his elbows into his hands before tossing them up again, or changing the pattern so that instead of moving up and down, they framed him in a blurred circle of heat and flickering light.

Higher and higher the torches flew, until all seven had joined the arc and those people in the audience had to crane their necks to see the apex of the topmost flare. Then, as each came down again, Dustfinger snatched it out of the air, smothered the flame with one hand, and dropped it to the ground just in time to catch the next as it plummeted towards him like a falling comet. The crowd started to cheer again, but the act was not over when the final torch was in the fire-eater's grasp. Dustfinger stood completely still just long enough to keep his watchers in suspense, then, with no warning whatsoever, opened his mouth and swallowed the flame.

An astonished silence fell over the square for a moment, followed by laughs and applause. Out of the corner of his eye, Dustfinger could see Farid grinning broadly as he circled the audience again. Placing the now-extinguished torch alongside the others, he beckoned the boy over to have a quick word with him.

"Make sure they stay well back from the flames," he instructed Farid quietly.

The boy shot him an anticipatory grin. "You're using the bottles?"

Dustfinger gave a shot nod, and Farid's smile widened considerably as he hurried off with his warning.

As soon as the audience had made a unified if rather reluctant step backwards, Dustfinger drew two bottles from his bag, one filled with a pearly white liquid. He placed them on the ground briefly, set a new torch ablaze, and then picked up one bottle and took a sip of the substance inside. Farid handed him a bowl, and he spat the liquid back into it. Taking the second bottle, he drank from it as well, but this time filled his mouth with the fluid. Farid took a careful step back.

Holding the torch in front of him, Dustfinger leaned back and expelled the liquid from his mouth and over the flame with a movement that was half spitting, half blowing. A veritable fireball appeared in the air, illuminating the captivated features of both Farid and the audience. Dustfinger, however, did not pause to look; now he was creating, not a sphere, but a thick, blazing stream of fire that soared up into the air, turning as Dustfinger willed it to. The fire-eater knew that it looked for all the world as though he were breathing the conflagration into being.

Even in this world, Dustfinger could feel a tiny portion of life inside this fire, the personality that was so abundant in his own story. True, this flame was wilder, and less friendly, but with patience and time (and by all the fairies, he had more than enough of that), he had learned to coax it, to let it trust him and to rely on its responsiveness himself. With a ghost of a smile on his lips, he allowed the fire to dance around him, watching it carefully as it licked at his bare chest and arms. He controlled it, even toyed with it, feeling its wavering caress like a thin, hot veil blowing gently against his body. For in his own world, he was a master of flame, a fire-dancer with the skill of his craft that none could equal.

Dustfinger brushed the eager creature away, letting it flit in between his fingers before extinguishing itself at his command. Then, holding the torch aloft again, he spun in a slow circle as he breathed forth a final river of fire. The ends connected, and the blazing ring slowly descended to the cobblestones with Dustfinger at its center. It burned brightly for a moment, and then vanished.

A flick of Dustfinger's hand, and the lone torch was quenched.

It was over.


	3. As Darkness Approaches

The crowd had dispersed, and Dustfinger had gathered up his things and returned to the sidelines of the marketplace. Pulling on his shirt, he placed the spent torches back in his bag, being careful not to disturb Gwin, who had apparently abandoned Farid for the dark comfort of the backpack's interior. The boy was seated cross-legged on the stone next to the backpack, counting the money he had collected from the performance.

"How did we do?" Dustfinger asked as he closed the flap of his bag. When Farid showed him, a brief smile flickered across his scarred face. "Acceptable, I suppose."

Farid got easily to his feet. "It was good — the performance, I mean." He grinned.

"My acts are always good," Dustfinger said, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. It was a truthful if somewhat immodest statement. "If they weren't, I'd have a lot more trouble staying alive than I do." He straightened, staring around the market for a few long moments. "I don't think we're going to get much more from these people," he concluded finally. "We'd best keep moving."

The boy shrugged. "If you say so." It was the usual response; if Dustfinger made a decision, Farid was almost always sure to agree. Almost.

Before leaving, Dustfinger used a small portion of their earnings to purchase food for the road. He himself had learned to cope with a tight belt and a fairly empty stomach much of the time, but for some reason he didn't want to see Farid having to live like that for days, even weeks on end. He knew that the boy had likely had to deal with hunger quite often in his own story, but he was still young, after all, and growing.

They continued away from the market, following the main street that had originally led them in and, if it conformed to logic, would show them the opposite way out. As Dustfinger had assumed, it did, and soon they were walking with their backs to the town and their faces towards an empty road that disappeared around a bend in the distance. Above the treeline, the heads of remote mountains could be seen peeking through a thick, grey-white cloudcover that seemed to be gathering rapidly in the atmosphere. Dustfinger gave those clouds a hard, searching look before returning his gaze to the road, hoping that they would stay put and generally mind their own business.

Most of the day was spent walking, traveling along the side of the winding mountain road with a steady pace and very few pauses on the way. Farid kept up a constant chatter for long periods, ranging from requests to learn more tricks of Dustfinger's trade to musings on what Silvertongue and Meggie would be doing at that moment. Dustfinger was only half-listening most of the time; his own thoughts were much farther away. Supposing he ever did get back, what would he do? His little Brianna would be very nearly grown up by now, and Roxane — what would she think of him? _Probably that you didn't even care. You've been gone ten years. You can't expect a warm welcome after ten years with no word, and besides, you don't even know if she's still there, even alive, after all this time._ No, Roxane might not be very forgiving. He only hoped that she wouldn't think he had abandoned his family on purpose — he had no control over the situation. How was he to know that Silvertongue would pluck him out of his story and his life like a ripe grape?

It was sometime in late afternoon when Dustfinger chanced another look up at the sky. He stared at the darkening grey for a second, then cursed softly. "Looks like we could be in for it," he noted to Farid, frowning as a streak of lighting came shooting down near the mountains up ahead. "Let's hope there's a village coming up soon, or we're going to be caught in the open."

Farid's eyes were rather wide as he nodded.

In an unspoken agreement, they quickened their pace, but a quarter of an hour later, the wind was beginning to pick up as the sky overhead darkened with thick, brooding masses of cloud. Trees on the edge of the road swayed heavily from side to side, their boughs whipped and tossed frantically. Holding up an arm to ward off the air that was beginning to sear at his eyes, Dustfinger squinted, trying to see further ahead.

"Over there!" he shouted after a moment, pointing with his other hand to a portion of the road some ways in front of them. It was a town, much smaller than the one they had visited that morning, but at the moment Dustfinger would have been relieved to see any village, no matter what the size. Farid glanced in the indicated direction, his dark face set. "We'll have to find some sort of shelter there," Dustfinger continued, his voice raised slightly to offset the wind. "And soon." Either that, he thought with a kind of bitter amusement, or we're going to get very, very wet.

Eagerness to get out of the wind and soon-to-come rain gave them an extra edge, and it took less time than Dustfinger had expected to reach the edge of the town. As they passed the first few houses, however, his optimism fell rather quickly. The problem was that all he could see were houses — this was not a quaint little tourist village by any stretch of the imagination. The few small stores that they passed were plainly closed. Pushing down a welling feeling of frustration, Dustfinger scanned the area and spotted thin, middle-aged woman outside one of the houses, bringing in a few items from outside before the storm hit. Giving Farid a little nod that meant _stay here_, the fire-eater walked rapidly over to the woman, stopping just in front of her.

"Excuse me," he began quickly, "but is there an inn or — or a hotel somewhere where we could stay here? We've been traveling, and —"

"No, of course there isn't," she interrupted him sharply, looking with distaste at his somewhat careworn clothes and backpack. "This isn't a tourist resort, you know."

Dustfinger bit back a quick reply, and, keeping his tone level with difficulty, asked, "Then, would anyone here be willing to —"

"And we don't take in strangers, either," the woman snapped back before he could finish. "Everyone knows you can't trust people these days, and even if you could —" she gave him a nasty look "— you certainly wouldn't be one of them. Now get out! Go away!" And retreating back into her home, she walked inside and slammed the door behind her.

"Friendly, these people," Farid observed quietly as Dustfinger returned to the other side of the street. "Now what do we do?"

Thinking, Dustfinger did not answer for a moment. The decision he knew he had to make wasn't quite ethical, but necessity pushed those doubts aside. He had done so many things in his life that were morally questionable that another small act didn't trouble him unduly. Not like Basta, of course — Basta crossed the line from _immoral_ to _evil_ with almost no effort at all. "Normally I wouldn't do this," Dustfinger began slowly, "but this is going to be a bad storm. We really don't want to be caught outside when it hits — which," he added, striding back the way they had come and beckoning the boy to follow, "could be just about any minute. Hurry up."

They backtracked some ways down the street, until finally Dustfinger spotted a house that was slightly more out of the way. He indicated it with a tilt of his head. "Let's try this one." As they approached the door, he drew a thin metal implement from his pocked, inserted it under the knob, and promptly commenced to pick the lock, his fingers working quietly and efficiently. As the lock clicked, he caught Farid looking at him with an almost incredulous expression, and gave the boy a small wink. "We don't have very many options, you know," he said calmly, and cautiously pushed the door open.

"Why did you want a house that was locked?" Farid questioned him softly as they slipped into the home. "It would have been easier to find one that wasn't."

Dustfinger put a finger to his lips, his gaze sweeping the room in a probing search for any signs of life. The first floor contained only three rooms — a living room, kitchen, and another that looked like it was used for various purposes — and all three of these the fire-eater checked carefully before returning to answer Farid's query. "Because," he replied in a whisper, closing the door, "a locked door means that likely no one's home, which is all the better for us."

"But we're not just going to sit here waiting for someone to find us, are we?" Farid gestured rather emphatically at an armchair in the room next to them.

"No, no," the fire-eater answered absently. Locating the stairs, he went softly up to the second floor and checked those rooms, as well, and then went back down. Striding across the room, he tried another door, which turned out to be a closet. "I'm not planning to give anyone the chance to make a fuss about us being here. We'll find the cellar and stay down there until the storm clears up." Even as he spoke, the sound of raindrops pinging off the roof reached his ears, the noise rapidly becoming heavier until it was obvious that a veritable downpour was soaking the area outside.

Farid had wandered into the kitchen. A few moments later, his voice could be heard saying curiously, "Dustfinger? What about over here?"

Ignoring the loud rumble of thunder that echoed darkly outside, Dustfinger went into the kitchen to have a look. The boy was standing by an open door, staring down at a set of stone stairs disappearing into a black void.

"Good," Dustfinger told him with a bare smile. He reached over and flipped the light switch on one side of the doorframe, but nothing happened. "The power must have been knocked out by the storm," he noted, peering down the steps. "Ah, well. Let's go."

Cautiously, Dustfinger began walking down the stairs, keeping his left hand on the wall next to him just in case. When Farid didn't follow, however, he turned and looked back up. The boy's eyes were quite wide, and he was standing at the edge of the top step as though he would rather be doing anything but this. "What is it?" Dustfinger asked rather sharply. "Come on."

"But — it's dark down there. There are probably ghosts or — or something."

"Oh, curse it all, Farid!" Dustfinger snapped in annoyance. "There's nothing down there but boxes and a few spiders, probably. None of your spirits and demons. Now get down here."

With obvious reluctance, the Arab boy made his way gingerly down the stairs, following closely as Dustfinger turned and led the way to the bottom. As he had predicted, the cellar seemed to be used mainly for storage. It was dark and musty, and not exactly a welcome place to spend any length of time. But Dustfinger had seen worse. Better than Capricorn's crypt under the church, he thought grimly. He glanced around, taking stock of the area, and then sat down with his back to the wall, facing the stairs. The floor was hard, very chilled, and none too clean, but with any luck they would only be there a few hours at most. Farid lowered himself to the ground a few feet away and sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, looking quite cold and miserable.

Stretching out his legs, Dustfinger leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Sleep if you like," he said quietly. "There's not much to do now but wait for the storm to let up."

Farid shrugged his thin shoulders and continued staring straight ahead. Dustfinger assumed that he was keeping wary of the many spirits that haunted his vivid imagination. Eventually, though, his head drooped to one side as he nodded off. Closing his own eyes again, Dustfinger cat-napped as the storm vented its fury on the village, but never did the fire-eater let himself drift off completely. He had had to look back over his shoulder too often for that.

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As always, helpful comments and contructive criticism always appreciated!


	4. Not the Only Stranger

It was several hours later, Dustfinger surmised, thought he could not do so with any degree of certainty; the darkness of the cellar and the sound of driving rain pounding outside had remained constant. Dustfinger roused himself from his half-sleep, looking over to Farid as he raised his head. The boy was still huddled against the wall, sound asleep with his mouth slightly open.

Absently tracing the thin scars on his face, Dustfinger drew out a box of matches and lit one with his usual normality. He held it between thumb and forefinger, watching the tiny flame dance and flicker, reaching upward even as it burned down the wood towards the hand of its creator. It was whispering to him — Dustfinger could hear the words, soft and beautiful in the still, enclosing darkness; but they were strange things, messages that flitted past his ear and that he could not understand. In his own story, he merely had to breathe the fire-words and the flame would obey him, but here… here it was different. Like everything else.

In his sleep, Farid stretched out with on hand, as thought somehow he could feel the heat of the match. Not quite aware that he was doing so, Dustfinger began watching him again. The boy wouldn't be a bad fire-eater, rally, if he ever stopped being so reckless and lighting a flame wherever and whenever he pleased. _But are you really going to take him, Dustfinger? He doesn't belong in your world any more than he does in this one. He has friends here, but who would he have in Ombra?_ Yes, that was a problem. Dustfinger felt that the boy would be far better off staying in Silvertongue's world, with Meggie and Resa and the book woman, and yet Farid kept tailing him like a stubborn, faithful dog.

Abruptly, a door slammed up above, and Dustfinger's head jerked sharply upward. He sat very still, listening intently. Footsteps, another door being closed… Looks like someone's home, after all, Dustfinger thought.

"Dustfinger!" Farid's urgent whisper came out of the blackness several feet away. Quietly, the fire-eater shifted position and illuminated the boy's face with what little of the match was left. "Someone's up there — here!"

"I know that," answered Dustfinger irritably. "Quiet now, all right?" He beckoned Farid to lie back in the shadows against the wall. "Let's not give ourselves away before we have to."

But whenever he had thought that time originally was, it came much sooner than he had anticipated, and far too soon for his liking. It had taken him a few minutes to comprehend why the footsteps above were ranging all over the house instead of going about their normal activities, but now Dustfinger realized that he had made a serious error.

"Damn!" the fire-eater swore softly as he heard the footfalls coming into the kitchen just overhead. Whoever it was knew that they were here now — Dustfinger had forgotten to lock the front door again.

Farid's hand touched his arm. "What's wrong?"

"Never mind — it's too late now." Rising slowly, Dustfinger shot a quick glance towards the door at the top of the stairs, then flicked away the blackened match stump that had burned itself out without his even noticing. "Move further back," he whispered. The steps were approaching closer, and then the door started to move. "Hurry!"

Too fast — with an unsuppressed cry, Farid stumbled on an overlooked box and went crashing to the floor, the offending object flipping over and adding to the sudden noise. Behind them, the cellar door flew open, and a loud male voice demanded, "Who's there?"

Dustfinger froze. His heart was pounding, but not really with fear, even considering the coward that he knew he was. No, he was feeling excitement, a bit of anxiety, and a quite a lot of annoyance at the boy's untimely ineptitude. Glaring at what little he could make out of Farid's grounded form, he breathed unsympathetically, "Could you possibly have been _any_ louder?"

"Come out where I can see you! I'm warning you — I have a gun!"

Dustfinger sighed as he turned around. "And I have a knife," he countered, keeping his tone level and almost bored. "However, I'd rather not have to use it."

"What are you doing in here?" the man asked sharply. Dustfinger could not see him, but given that circumstance it was unlikely that he could see the fire-eater, either.

"There's a storm outside."

"I'm well aware of that," came the acid reply. "Now answer the question."

"I thought I just did. I've been traveling and I was caught by the storm. When I was rather rudely told that there's no place to stay here and that no one would be willing to take me in for a while, I decided to invite myself in."

"Look, I don't know where you come from, but around here you don't just break into someone's home and expect them to be perfectly fine with it!" There was an angry pause. "Now who are you?"

Shrugging, Dustfinger answered, "I'm a traveling performer. And as a matter of fact, I didn't expect you to be fine with this. I expected to stay here until the storm cleared up and then be on my way, and you not knowing a thing. But I made a foolish mistake, so here we are now."

"A simple traveling performer, eh?" The man sounded neither believing nor impressed. "Are you positive about that? Not a thief, perhaps, or a criminal on the run?"

"Only in the eyes of some." Dustfinger could not help thinking about the numerous times he had switched sides, traded information between Capricorn and Silvertongue just so he could get home, and all it had done was earned him the enmity of both parties.

There was a slight motion at the top of the stairs. "Don't move — I'm turning on the light."

"Don't bother," Dustfinger told him wearily. This was beginning to get tedious. "The power's been knocked out by the storm. Here —" He pulled out an unused torch from his bag, lit another match, and, setting fire to the cotton wool, gently blew the flame to life. "Does that help?"

As the cellar blackness shrank away from Dustfinger's hand, both men were able to get a better look at the other. The presumable owner of the house did in fact have possession of a gun, which startled Dustfinger just a little — he had not been sure if the man was bluffing or not. He was younger than the fire-eater, but not by all that much. At the moment, his dark eyebrows were drawn together in a moderately dangerous way. Upon seeing Dustfinger's face, however, he lowered his weapon a fraction and stared at him as though this were all some impossible dream.

"You've got to be joking," he said, his voice hoarse and unbelieving.

Puzzled, Dustfinger looked at him for a moment, trying to figure out what the sudden change was. Then realization struck him, and he threw up his free hand in utter despair. "You — oh, curse it all!" he said loudly, unable to keep his temper any longer. "Of all the places here, I had to pick this one, didn't I? Fine then — out with it! You've read that accursed book, haven't you?"

"_Inkheart_?" The man nodded slowly, still staring avidly at Dustfinger. "Yes, I have. One of few, I think. And you — you're Dustfinger."

"Yes, I am. Dustfinger, the poor fire-eater who gets killed off by the end of the book." How bitter, how mocking, his words were, but who could blame him for that? No one else knew the end of their story, no one except him. But it was all changed now, or so he told himself. The old man had not planned for Dustfinger to come into this world, so obviously the story had deviated from its original course.

There was a mixed expression of pity and confusion on the man's face, as though he could not quite come to terms with Dustfinger's physical existence, and yet recognized what the casual reference to the fire-eater's fate really meant. For some reason, this angered Dustfinger far more than the man pointing a gun at him. He was always the receiving object of the pity of others, but not their help. Little good that sympathy did him — he didn't want it, and would willingly thrust it back in their arrogant faces if not for the lone hope that pity might move them to do something useful. Not that it ever did, of course.

"What's the matter?" he said quickly, his tone hard and unfriendly. "Surprised, are you, that I know how I'm supposed to die? It wasn't my idea, believe me."

"Yes. I suppose — I mean, no, this is — it doesn't make sense. It's not possible. How can — you're a storybook character, for heaven's sake! You're fictional — you don't exist! You can't just pop yourself out of a book and — it's like Mr. Tumnus trying to fly out of _The Chronicles of Narnia_ into the real world. It's not even plausible!"

"I don't know about this Mr. Tumnus," Dustfinger said flatly, looking into the flame of the happily burning torch, "but I know two people who can read characters out of stories just with words — and against the wishes of those characters, I might add. Unfortunately," he continued resentfully, "they are somewhat less agreeable when it comes to sending people back in."

Swallowing hard, the owner spoke only after a long moment of silence. "I hope you realize how completely unbelievable you're sounding right now. There's no proof, you see. I'm more inclined to believe that you're making up an intriguing, but, I'm afraid, rather impossible story." He smiled, that pitying look that Dustfinger hated so much.

"Impossible?" Dustfinger breathed, considering the word. "Oh, yes. That's what I thought, too, at first." His scarred face twisted into a grim half-smile. "That was ten years ago."

The man shrugged, almost apologetically, Dustfinger thought. "Sorry, but the idea is just absurd."

"And that makes me a criminal breaking into a house again, I suppose." Sighing, the fire-eater reached for his backpack. "Let's see how long it takes to persuade you," he suggested, and held up two objects, one in each hand. "Now, will it be fire or the marten?"

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As always, any helpful comments or critique are always welcome and appreciated!


	5. Stories

**Author's Note: **I know it's been somewhere in the vicnity of forever since I've updated this story. I just realized that I have two more chapters typed and just hanging about on my computer, so I figured I really need to get them up.

Enjoy, and I appreciate your comments and constructive criticism as always! Please review!

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Gwin proved to be very little help in convincing Lorenzo (the man had given Dustfinger his name with a curt sort of air that showed he still held a mounting skepticism for the entire story). When Dustfinger attempted to show that, unlike with Silvertongue's original lie to his daughter, Gwin really did have genuine horns between his ears, the marten snapped viciously at both men and then squirmed out of Dustfinger's grip, streaking away into some dark corner of the cellar.

"He's a bit temperamental," the fire-eater explained, shrugging as he wound cotton wool around the top of a new torch. He had put out the other one and replaced it in his backpack. "Ah, but you should know that. You read the book, after all."

Lorenzo didn't reply. He was still looking at the place where Gwin's tail had disappeared.

"Then again," Dustfinger added, looking curiously at Lorenzo as he finished off the torch head, "perhaps you're not a lost cause, after all. We'll see." He struck another match and held it to the wadded cotton. "Now watch closely."

As Lorenzo backed away, his eyes fixed on the torch's flame, Dustfinger began toying with the fire. He spun it around his head, flipped it up into the air, caught it behind his back with the other hand… The shadows of the cellar shrank, grew, and distorted as the flickering light left a trail of brightness heavy upon the air in its wake. Lorenzo's eyes became wider and wider as he stared, transfixed, at the swirl of fire that more than anything else defined Dustfinger as the fire dancer.

Dustfinger himself was not quite sure why he was so determined to prove to this skeptic that he really was the character from _Inkheart_. On the rare occasions when he had tried to explain his identity, the only ones who believed him were those who truly knew in the first place — namely, Silvertongue, his daughter, Capricorn and his men, Elinor (though she had needed some heavy convincing on Silvertongue's part), and now, of course, Farid. Everyone else could not, or simply refused to, take him at face value. And that was what hurt him; the loneliness, the isolation, the knowledge that he was an outsider here and always would be. Deep inside, he admitted that he desperately wanted someone at least to understand how he simply could not adapt to this world, and why his words always held a note of bitterness.

"I think," Lorenzo interrupted shakily several minutes later, "I think you have me convinced. There's no one else who can control fire as well as you can. Or so they say in _Inkheart_."

Dustfinger regarded him carefully for a long moment before he let the barest of smiles flit across his face. "I haven't got any magical abilities, you know," he said quietly. "I'm as human as the rest of the people in this world, and my own. This is merely caution and quite a bit of experience."

"In your story, though — it does say that you can create shapes out of fire. Flowers, and animals…"

But Dustfinger shook his head. "Not here. Here, I'm limited by the resources I have, and this world lacks several conveniences that make my trade more exciting."

And to his surprise, Lorenzo nodded understandingly. "The fire-elves. They _would_ help, I suppose, wouldn't they?" He looked at the fire-eater for confirmation, but all of a sudden Dustfinger wasn't feeling nearly as friendly as he had been a few seconds ago.

"You know," he snapped angrily, "I'm not sure I like everyone knowing more about me than I do myself. It's bad enough when I find out how that accursed writer intends for me to die, and then I get people like you who I don't even know telling me about my life! I don't need that!" He turned away quickly and took a few paces in the opposite direction.

"No," Lorenzo agreed slowly. Dustfinger could feel his eyes staring. "No, I suppose you don't, at that. My… apologies." Silence threatened to creep up on then once again, but he was not finished. "Perhaps, if you're not still considering sticking me with that knife of yours, you could tell me exactly how you got here? I'm really very curious."

"I thought I explained that already," Dustfinger replied, still not looking at him. Instead, he let the flame in his hand take his attention. "But as you wish." And his thoughts drifted back to that day, that sudden, confusing night when everything had changed. "Where to begin… With Silvertongue, of course. He caused all this. Along with the writer."

"Silvertongue?" Lorenzo sounded puzzled.

"A man — a bookbinder — but a very common man nonetheless." Dustfinger paused. "Except for his voice. There's something about it, something magic, that brings ink and paper to life. All he has to do is read a book aloud. And that is how I came to be here. Silvertongue read from my story. One second I was standing in Capricorn's fortress, enjoying the ever-charming company of Basta and his master, and the next I had landed in a strange room, with Capricorn standing there, too, and Basta still half-choking me." The fire-eater grimaced. "None of us were in any position to do anything — it was the shock, I think, and it may very well have saved us, for Capricorn and Basta were still recovering. I don't quite remember what happened then, but Silvertongue left, and when he came back, he said my name. He knew who I was. Early on, I thought he was some sort of enchanter, but I learned the truth later on. He could bring stories to life."

Obviously fascinated, Lorenzo asked, "What happened to Capricorn and Basta?"

"They disappeared. I seem to recall that Silvertongue took Basta's sword and drove them out, somehow. I left, as well, but I couldn't take it. Your world is far too loud and busy. I went back to the house four days later, looking for the book that would send me home." Dustfinger fell silent. The pain of landing in the wrong story hurt almost as much now as it had that first night. But he drew a deep breath and continued, if somewhat more quietly. "But Silvertongue wouldn't give it to me. He hid it. And from then on he moved further and often, trying to get away. I followed him for four, nearly five years, always trying to get what was mine. And then, suddenly, I lost him. And not long after, Capricorn found me."

"But," Lorenzo said, looking confused, "I thought you said he disappeared."

There was no humor in Dustfinger's smile. "He did. But you see, Capricorn adapted far more easily to this world than I did. He enjoyed it. In his view, the opportunities, the advantages, were far greater than they had been in our old world. He gathered others around him, some, like Basta, that he had read out of the story from his old life, and others that he recruited from the countryside. He formed his own black little community in isolated parts of the country. He obviously had to move every so often, as your police would eventually track down the source of the mischief his men caused. For pleasure, of course," Dustfinger added disgustedly. "Basta has a strange sense of fun."

Lorenzo seemed to be waiting for more — his face had the kind of expectancy that Farid's always showed when Dustfinger was demonstrating another trick with matches or torches. But Dustfinger had grown weary of explaining the whole tiresome story. Maybe it was talking about Basta.

"Look," he said a minute later, "that's all I'm going to say for now. If you want more, the boy can explain what happened after that."

"Which boy would that be?"

"Another victim of Silvertongue's voice. He's over — for heaven's sake, where is he now?" Farid had disappeared, leaving behind the two careworn bags that he often carried for Dustfinger. "Farid!" the fire-eater called sharply, but his shout was met only with silence. Why could the boy never stay put for more than two minutes at a time?

"There's another way up over there." Lorenzo pointed. "Maybe he went that way."

"Oh?" Dustfinger shot him a scrutinizing look. Unlike Silvertongue's, this man's face was rather difficult to read. "And do I take this to mean that you're _not_ going to shoot me for, as you put it, breaking into your house? Rather a sudden change of view, isn't it?"

At that, Lorenzo smiled slightly. "I don't think you broke in to rob me."

"You trust me." And when Lorenzo nodded after a few seconds' hesitation, Dustfinger shook his head at that stupidity. "You're a fool, then. I've been labeled before as a thief, not to mention a traitor, a liar, and all other kinds of things. Trust someone when it's been earned, not because you like them."

Swinging his backpack over his shoulder and picking up the two bags, Dustfinger followed the man across the cellar and up the shadowy stairs on the other side. Their path was lighted by the torch that the fire-eater still held aloft.

"Out of curiosity," Lorenzo began, as he pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and they emerged into what Dustfinger took to be a back hall of sorts, "you don't have a copy of _Inkheart_, by any chance, do you?"

Dustfinger turned on him so suddenly that he was forced to take a step back. "Why do you want to know?" the fire-eater demanded, with a feeling of mounting tension. How he wanted to get out of this house, away from everyone who thought because he was a book character they knew him!

"Well, meeting you — and hearing your story — it made me want to look that that book again," Lorenzo replied, looking at him slightly fearfully. "I was only able to read it once. Then the next thing I knew, it was —"

"— stolen," Dustfinger finished for him. Along with every other copy in existence, he thought resentfully. "Yes, I know. And do _you_ know who was responsible for that?" A pause. "Capricorn. His men tracked down every single copy and destroyed each one. Capricorn didn't want even a memory of our old world to haunt him."

The man looked rather disappointed. "So you don't have one."

"No," Dustfinger lied.

"Pity," said Lorenzo softly. Dustfinger shot him an irritated look and kicked the door shut.

They found Farid standing in the front room, staring through the window at the sheets of rain pounding the street outside. His black eyes were narrowed, slightly worried, and he jumped a little every time a flash of lightning seared especially close. Gwin was perched on his shoulder, tail curled around the boy's neck. The marten chattered loudly when he saw Dustfinger.

Offering a hand, Lorenzo introduced himself, but Farid regarded him with a flat, distrustful stare and kept his own hands in his pockets. Dustfinger felt something in the vicinity of admiration as he watched the exchange. The boy was even more wary of contact than he was.

At Lorenzo's urging and Dustfinger's insistence, however, Farid reluctantly began relating what had occurred during their unpleasant stays in Capricorn's village and the times in between. He clearly was not happy about it, but Dustfinger was not going to be the one to recount the entire story, especially since much of it had been his fault, his stupidity, in the first place. _You're such a gullible fellow, Dustfinger_, Capricorn had said, and it had been all too true — but not anymore. He was through trusting people, believing their lies because he had simply hoped. They had all let him down — Capricorn, Silvertongue, even Resa. He was sick of being manipulated.

"What an incredible story," Lorenzo was saying as Farid stopped speaking. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. "Capricorn is dead…and there is a copy of _Inkheart_ left. But where is it now?"

"It's — " The boy turned his head with a quick, nervous movement to look at Dustfinger, who knew exactly what the expression meant — What do I say? Do I tell him we have it?

"Silvertongue has it," said Dustfinger shortly. "And no doubt he's hidden it well."


	6. On A Knife's Edge

**Author's Note: **Finally, another chapter! Sorry for the wait.

Please leave your comments - the review button is your friend (and mine)!

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Darkness fell quickly, but brought with it a welcome relief as the rain gradually diminished; the only watery sound was that of droplets splashing from roof to street. Apparently with the intention of cooking some sort of dinner, Lorenzo had disappeared and was engaged in the kitchen, leaving Dustfinger and Farid in the front room. The boy was curled up on the couch at the back of the room, staring at the ceiling. He stroked a sleepy Gwin around the ears, while Dustfinger stood silently by the window, arms folded.

In accordance with his change from hostility to hospitality, Lorenzo had offered to let them stay the night, if they wished. Farid had been ready to refuse, but Dustfinger, despite misgivings, had accepted the invitation. Traveler as he was, he did not look forward to a night spent on wet grass under dripping tree canopies. The agreement, however, was made with the understanding that they would be leaving early the next morning. In any case, Dustfinger did not think he would be able to stand remaining much longer in the company of the inquisitive Lorenzo. The man was far too curious, and Dustfinger also sensed that he was rather clever. Sooner or later, he would figure out that he had been lied to, and who only knew what would happen then.

A quarter of an hour later, the oppressive feeling of being too enclosed inside began mounting within Dustfinger in earnest. He shifted position, moving for the first time since Lorenzo had left. Grabbing his backpack — he wasn't leaving the book for Lorenzo's prying hands to find — he walked across the room, skirting a table and chair. He was halfway to the door when Farid looked up, causing Gwin to chatter angrily as his position near the boy's shoulder was disturbed.

"Where are you going?" Black eyes darted towards Dustfinger in the semi-darkness.

Dustfinger shrugged, hand now on the doorknob. "Outside, for a little walk," he said. He pulled open the door, looking out into the night.

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not," argued Dustfinger quickly, but when he had stepped out onto the wet street and walked a few paces, the boy was still behind him. "Haven't I told you before that if I want someone tailing me, I'll get a dog?" he demanded.

Looking down at the black puddles formed on the road, Farid shrugged his narrow shoulders. "You're not going to get rid of me. You've tried before. And anyway, Gwin wants to come."

Dustfinger couldn't argue against that. The marten had jumped down from his perch and now scurried ahead of them, his bushy tail whipping around the corner of an alleyway. A second later, his angry chitter reached their ears — and Dustfinger stopped in his tracks. Gwin was normally a silent hunter, and quiet in general unless he was in a bad mood — so why was he making as much noise as a flock of wild geese? "Tactless creature must have run into a cat or something," Dustfinger muttered. All the same, he took a quick look down the alley as they passed, but there was no sound now and no sign of Gwin, and then they were approaching the edge of the village.

Dustfinger had hoped that a walk in the cool darkness, away from houses and lights, would relieve his discomfort. But as they strayed away from the glows of candles that had been lit while the power was down, he began to feel uneasy. The night, usually so peaceful, seemed cold and hostile. Don't be foolish, Dustfinger, he told himself roughly. You're getting as bad as the boy, starting at shadows every other second. You'll be seeing his ghosts next.

They had walked almost out of sight of the village, a little ways into the trees, when an especially large shiver ran down Dustfinger's spine, and he stopped abruptly. Enough ignoring his instincts — someone was nearby, following. He stood very still, breathing soundlessly and listening for any noises out of place. But all was quiet. Until —

A sudden snap, sounding as loud as a gunshot in the stillness, broke the silence directly behind Dustfinger. Heart pounding, he whirled around as his fingers sought Basta's knife in his pocket. And there was Farid, looking guiltily down at the dry twig, hidden under the leaf cover, that his foot had unwittingly broken.

"Sorry," the boy muttered, glancing back up.

"Don't do that!" Dustfinger snapped at him. He felt his heart still racing about three times too fast, but relief washed over him all the same. "My nerves are strung tight enough as it is without you tripping all over —" He broke off sharply at the look on the boy's face — a frozen, terrified expression directed at something, some_one_, right behind him.

"Fancy meeting you here, Dustfinger," a terribly familiar voice rasped.

Dustfinger felt the cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat and cursed himself for being so stupid. Basta had found him again. He had to grip the knife handle in his pocket more tightly to keep his hand from shaking.

Eyes narrowed in obvious pleasure, Basta pushed Dustfinger roughly against a broad tree nearby. At the edge of his vision, Dustfinger saw two men — wearing black, naturally — emerge from the shadows. They quickly took hold of Farid before he could escape. Dustfinger didn't recognize them; he was unsure if they were two of those who had fled Capricorn's village, or if Basta had picked them up somewhere else, wherever he had been since that time. Either way, chances of escape were looking less and less.

"Still running, Basta?" He swallowed hard against the blade. "Where's Mortola? I do hope she's broken down and died in a hole somewhere. I imagine she's been quite distraught since your master's well-deserved death."

The knife was pressed so hard against his neck that he expected to feel the warm welling of blood at any moment. "Don't worry, Dirtyfingers," Basta hissed viciously. "She's very much alive, and will be glad to know that I've caught up with you. And as for Capricorn —" He shrugged. "She seems to think he might not be quite as dead as _you_ would like to think." His mouth twisted into a scornful smile.

"Ah." Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dustfinger tried to answer with as much skillful carelessness as he used when playing with fire. "You're here for the book, then."

Clearly enjoying himself, Basta ran his knifepoint in various directions along his captive's neck, as though seeking for the most painful place to start. "That's right," he purred after a moment. His eyes flickered upward for a moment to look at Dustfinger's face. He seemed to be recalling when he had put those scars where they were now. "Though the fact that _you_ stole it makes a nice little bonus. I've been looking forward to finding you."

"Well, you're out of luck," Dustfinger said shortly. "I don't have it." He felt his hands in his pockets becoming slippery with sweat.

"Don't try that lie again, Dirtyfingers!" Basta replied, using his knife to force the fire-eater's head upward. "We know how much you want to return to your fairies and goblins and mud-caked, wandering friends. You've been trying to get the book ever since we landed here."

Dustfinger winced a little as he felt the blade prick into his skin. "I don't have it!" he repeated quickly. "Silvertongue took it." More lies. They always came when he was desperate.

A little ways away, Farid's head shot up, his eyes staring into Dustfinger's in horror. "You can't send them back there!' he protested, disbelief written all over his dark face. "Meggie's there! And—" But Dustfinger gave him such a dangerous look that he stopped. The fire-eater knew perfectly well who else was with Meggie and Silvertongue. But what did he care anymore? If Resa would rather be with Silvertongue, she would have to face the same consequences he did.

Farid's eyes were burning. And, with a ferocity born of uncharacteristic anger, he broke away from the men holding him, kicking one so hard that he stumbled and elbowing another in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain.

That was it — their only chance. With a rapid movement of his hand, Dustfinger whipped out Basta's old knife and slashed at its former owner. Basta let out a cry of pain as the blade found its mark, creating a bloody gash between neck and shoulder. Somehow recovering his agility, Dustfinger ducked under the man's arm and took off running, his legs carrying him just behind Farid as they raced through the trees.

Just keep running, he thought frantically. Each breath caught in his throat and his heart was beating madly. He didn't know where he was going — anywhere away from Basta and his knife.

The gunshot took him by surprise, for some reason. He should have been expecting it, if not from Basta than from the other thugs, but he wasn't. Luckily, one of the men misjudged Dustfinger's speed and shot a fraction too late, though the bullet found a target all the same. Pain seared suddenly somewhere near Dustfinger's ankle — he stumbled, tried to keep going, and then fell heavily to the ground as his leg gave way. Furious, he let out a stream of suppressed curses.

Up ahead, Farid quickly slowed and stopped, apparently realizing that the fire-eater was no longer just behind him. Without hesitation, he ran back to help, though Dustfinger tried to ward him off. "Go!" he shouted, rising into a kneeling position with his good leg. Hearing Basta's triumphant yell not far away, he unslung his backpack and tossed it to the boy. Basta might be getting him, but he wasn't getting the book. "Take this and run! You can't help here!"

Farid hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between Basta and Dustfinger.

"Go!" Dustfinger repeated savagely. "Or I swear I'll send all the demons of the underworld after you!"

Eyes wide, Farid turned and fled, like a young deer bounding away from a hunter. He glanced back only once, and then was swallowed by the darkened forest. Dustfinger only hoped that he would have sense enough to return to the village.

"Follow him!" Basta's voice shouted, suddenly close. "He has the book!" One of the other men ran past Dustfinger and also vanished into the night.

With a sigh that was half-relief, half-fear at what was to come, Dustfinger sank back to the ground. He winced slightly as another spurt of pain shot up his leg. "Too slow, Basta," he said hoarsely, deliberately provoking the man with a mocking smile. "The boy's long gone — he's even faster than I am."

Basta didn't seem overly concerned, however. "He won't get far. We tracked _you_ halfway across the country and back, and here we are now." He sneered unpleasantly.

"Yes," Dustfinger murmured slowly, "yes, I was wondering about that. How did you manage it? After all, you don't have Capricorn's dogs with you, and they're quite a bit smarter than you are."

Ignoring the jibe, Basta took out his knife again and ran one forefinger contemplatively along the blade. "You should be more careful where you perform," he said after a moment. There was a derisive tone in his words that Dustfinger would have liked to strike out of them. "Your little shows are so easy to follow, from one filthy town to the next… How many fire-eaters are there is this world?"

Not many, Dustfinger said in his thoughts. Oh, yes, Fire Dancer, you've done it now.

"The only reason we took so long in catching up with you," Basta continued, "was that you had an unfortunate head start. But that's no problem — you weren't very quick this time, were you?"

Dustfinger scowled but did not answer. Instead, he looked down and gingerly rolled up one pant leg to see what damage the bullet had done. The wound was a few inches above his ankle. Even brushing it with his fingertips made the torn skin sting, and a little blood was pooling at the injury's surface, but he had to count himself lucky. It was a mere graze in comparison to what might have happened if the missile had scored a direct hit. If that had occurred, he would have a bullet lodged in his leg to deal with. "Damn you, Basta," he swore quietly. Why did such a small thing have to pain him so much?

Covering the wound again, Dustfinger raised his head to look up at his enemy. "Too bad he didn't shoot me in the back — or the head. Then you'd finally be rid of me." He grimaced. "But what else can one expect from a man of yours? Pitiful shots, the lot of them."

Basta didn't reply for a long time, but Dustfinger felt distinctly uneasy at the look that was playing across his angular face. It was almost satisfied — and anything that brought pleasure to Basta was sure to have the opposite effect on Dustfinger. After a moment, the former turned his head. "You won't be so cocky when I've finished with you, fire-eater," he said softly. "You lost your safety net when you stopped working for Capricorn. And guess what?" His expression became positively malicious. "No fluttering fairies here to fix you up like they did last time. You're on your own, and no one's going to help you."

"I've gotten used to it." With a slightly trembling hand, Dustfinger raised his knife again and held it warningly in front of him. "Now stay away from me. I can use this almost as well as you can."

"Is that so?" Basta asked, his voice a dangerous whisper. He stopped stroking his blade and looked at the fire-eater interestedly. "And you still couldn't kill me. Coward!"

Dustfinger heard his own words shaking somewhat as he spoke. "You don't need to tell me, Basta. I know what I am. But that doesn't make me any less capable. The only difference is — is that I don't take much pleasure in cutting people up like you do."

Contemptuously, Basta kicked the knife out of his hand. Dustfinger tried to lunge for it, but the other man put his gun uncomfortably close, and the fire-eater sank back to the ground, realizing that his last pitiful defense had been swept away by the toe of Basta's boot. There was nowhere he could go, no one he could count on for help — well, except the boy, providing he made it away from Basta's man and found some way to sneak back and free Dustfinger without getting himself killed in the process.

"Get him up," Basta ordered in his rasping voice, and Dustfinger was hauled roughly to his feet. He had to shift his weight over to his uninjured leg in order to stand upright. While the man held him firmly, Basta took a length of rope he had brought along and bound Dustfinger's hands and wrists tightly behind his back. "We're not taking any chances with you, fire-eater," he said harshly. "You've slipped through our hands too many times with your clever fingers."

Abruptly, Dustfinger turned his head and gave Basta a hard, flat stare, so utterly full of hatred and contempt that the man took a step backward. "Someday, Basta," Dustfinger breathed, his tone one of total loathing, "someday these clever fingers will find their way around your neck — and it won't just be with skin, but with fire. You may make others bleed, but I'll make you burn. And then the White Women will finally come for you, and they'll whisper your name, and put _their_ cold fingers around your neck, and then, Basta — then I'll have my revenge."

Every so often, Dustfinger forgot how easy it was to frighten his enemy. Threaten Basta with a knife, and he didn't even blink, but show him words, coupled with fire, and he became prey to his superstitions.

Looking both angry and scared, Basta stared for a moment and then signaled to the man holding Dustfinger. "We're going back. With any luck, Savio will have caught that boy by now."

_Ah, but you haven't got any luck, Basta_, Dustfinger thought mockingly. _You think you do, but I can steal it away_. Even in his present situation, he smiled a little as his captor muttered something unintelligible and forced him along at gunpoint. This brief flash of satisfaction, however, swiftly passed. As they continued, Dustfinger was limping, and had to clench his teeth tightly whenever he stumbled or a low-hanging branch chafed against his leg. Escape was disgustingly out of the question. One, the man behind him had a gun, and two, he likely wouldn't make it far anyway. Some fix to get himself into!


End file.
